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read it—aloud—from her bed, then passed it to the others who had called and were now standing in her bedroom beside me. Each of them read it in turn and then everyone discussed it and reread it. By the time I left Friend Dynham’s and returned the letter to the Hopkinses, the time for dinner had long passed. Raindrops had been swept away by a relentless wind, and the sun had begun its winter-precipitated decline in the sky.
    Up ahead was the King’s Arms Tavern. Its windows spilled light; from its door came raucous laughter. I decided to pass to the other side of the street, fearing to come upon any of the soldiers who frequented the place. I had not wanted company to hinder my calls during the day, but I would not have minded some at that moment. I hurried up the four blocks to the jail, knowing I ought not be walking unescorted. But as I arrived at the corner, I realized I was not alone.
    Standing there in the darkest shadow cast by the building was Jeremiah Jones. I could tell by the odd way he held himself, as if he was trying to balance for his missing arm.
    As I passed, he stepped away from the shadow, moving toward me.
    When I hastened my step, he did the same.
    I had no love for the man. Nor for any of those who spoke of Friends with derision and mockery in their voices. All those soldiers from the French and Indian troubles seemed to blame the Friends for it. It was people like him who had fanned the emotions of the mob that had killed my grandfather. And people like him who catered to the vices of those who had arrested my father. It was because of people like Jeremiah Jones that I understood what it meant to be a Friend. I had always associated the discovery of being something other than what everyone else was, with him or those like him. Those prosecutors of war and of hate.
    He must have once been handsome, but the hostility and the sullenness that hung about him had hardened his features. I cast one last look at the jail and closed my lips around a sigh. It seemed indeed as if he was intent upon me. If only he could be pleasant.
    “Miss Sunderland.”
    “Jeremiah Jones.” I stopped and looked up at him. His eyes, reflecting the sun’s setting rays, were remarkably clear and disturbingly blue. Though the wind was cutting, he seemed impervious to the chill. His cravat was tied so loosely that it left his throat bared, and the worn brown coat he wore was unbuttoned. The wind teased hairs from his queue and tossed them about his head as we stood there.
    “You’ll never be able to get in to see your brother without a pass from General Howe.”
    “Aye, I know it. And I’ve already submitted my request.” That jail loomed before me so ominous. And it was so . . . wretched. If only I could free Robert from it! “I hope it will not take long to get one.”
    “You might as well hope for the British to leave. And thank us on their way.”
    It’s as I had thought, although it didn’t please me to hear it.
    “But I might be able to help you.”
    I felt my brow lift.
    He bowed. “Aye. Me. Jeremiah Jones.”
    I blushed. I could not help it. “ ’Tis not that I don’t believe thee.”
    He straightened, cocked his head as he looked at me. “No. ’Tis more that you don’t like me.”
    Gathering my skirts, I continued on my way.
    “Wait. Stop. Please . . . I can help you. I know a major on Howe’s staff. He can get you a pass.”
    “And why would thee help me?”
    “Because I think that you might be able to help me in return.” He attempted to take me by the arm, just like those soldiers had attempted to take Father, and just like they had tried to take me. I wrested it from him, fear gripping my heart. I would go nowhere with any man!
    He took a step back from me as he held up his hand. “I only thought it might not do to attract attention to ourselves.”
    I glanced over at the sentry, who was staring back at me. Staring back at us. Against my better judgment I closed the distance between